


Drink All My Thoughts

by trash_freak



Series: RickMorty Trash Pile [11]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Substance Abuse, dubcon, mostly bad feelings, some bad touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 05:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_freak/pseuds/trash_freak
Summary: Rick drinks a lot. Morty asks him not to.





	Drink All My Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FocusOnScience](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FocusOnScience/gifts).



Rick’s fingers look almost dainty as he slowly swivels the lid of his flask free, takes a long pull, replaces the lid. He cradles the container close, fingers fidgety with what could be called absentminded affection if it weren’t directed towards an inanimate object.

Morty wants to feel the burn with him, wants to taste Rick’s tongue to chase the poison there. Morty wants to understand the allure. Morty wants Rick to stop killing himself so casually, so eagerly.

Morty tries not to think about it.

They’re all going out tonight, for dinner, as a family, and it’ll be boring and awkward, but Morty is sort of looking forward to it all the same. So when he sees Rick, reclined on the couch, staring blankly at the TV, unscrewing and screwing and unscrewing that lid, taking a kiss from the lip of his flask each time, he feels a surprising and overwhelming disappointment.

“Hey, uh, hi, Rick,” Morty mumbles as he sits himself beside Rick, puts his feet up on the coffee table beside Rick’s.

“Heyyyy, Mortyyyy,” Rick cheers, slapping hard at Morty’s knee a couple times in greeting. “How y- _uuuuuuhhhh_ \- uh, how you d- _hic_ \- doing, babe- buddy?” Rick’s face is slack and relaxed with alcohol already, the smell strong and hard-hitting.

Morty is wearing his nice button-up shirt and smart trousers. Rick has a wet patch of booze and drool down one of the lapels of his lab coat. The contrast is making Morty feel self-conscious, like he’s over-dressed, like he’s put in too much effort.

“So, uh, Rick, I was- I w-was thinking maybe you could, uh, you know, maybe not drink _too_ much tonight? Like, it’d be nice to just, maybe, hang out? Without, like, monsters trying to eat us or you throwing up?”

Rick’s eyebrows scrunch together more with each word until Morty’s voice tapers out, shrinks and dies. He waits quietly for a response, nervous, not wanting to ruin Rick’s good mood and doom the night to failure before it’s even begun.

“What’re you shitting y- _uuuuooor_ panties for- _urrrp_ \- Morty, jesus, it’s all cool, dawg, no sw- no worries.”

Morty breathes out a sigh of relief, shifts closer to Rick, grateful.

“Thank you, Rick,” he says, leaning in to rest his head on Rick’s shoulder. When Rick rests his hand on Morty’s knee, Morty lays his own hand lightly on top, traces defined veins and old scars and watches TV until the rest of the family are ready to go.

-

Morty, of course, is stupid. Rick tells him all the time, but he still forgets, still needs the daily reminders.

There are times when he truly thinks Rick cares about his opinion, despite how often Rick tells him otherwise. There are times when he thinks Rick might even _listen_ to him.

There are times like tonight when he is proven wrong, again, and is somehow still shocked by it.

Rick gets halfway through the main course before he’s reaching into his inside pocket, eyes blank and eyebrow raised, bored, entirely unimpressed as Jerry waffles on about the promotion he’s _definitely going to get this time, Beth._

It’s strange, the way the world seems to turn just a little slower, just for a moment; the way Morty’s stomach seems to fold in on itself at the broken promise.

It’s ridiculous, Morty knows, the way his eyes start to burn, the way his throat feels hot and tight with angry disappointment.

He’d really thought…

“I-I- uh, I gotta go, uh, I gotta go pee,” Morty announces, standing abruptly and retreating from the table.

Summer’s disgusted complaint trails after him, “Oh my god, he’s so gross I wanna die.”

He barely hears it, too focussed on trying not to sniff too loud, his nose running from the itch in his tear ducts. It’s all connected together, he remembers Rick telling him once; the eyes, the nose, the throat. That’s why your nose runs when you cry.

Morty feels like everything he knows somehow comes back to Rick; can’t even _cry_ without thinking of him.

The bathroom seems too daunting to enter alone right now, so he hovers outside awkwardly until he calms down enough to return to his family. A part of him thought Rick might follow. He’s not sure if he’s glad or not that Rick didn’t.

By the time Morty returns, Rick seems to be nearing the end of a tirade directed at Jerry, now slumped in his chair. Beth is chugging back the wine like it’s her life source and Summer is determinedly ignoring them all, focussed on her phone.

“In s- _uhhh_ -ummary, Jerry, your ‘career’ is about as interesting as you are, which is, to clarify, abuurrr-out as interesting as an empty cardboard box. No one wants to hear about it, Jerry. No one care- no one gives a _shit_ that the cardboard is corrugated.” He takes another long drink, burps loudly, and goes back to eating his chicken. “This is- urrrrrp- this, Beth, this is a great meal, sweetie, you really picked a good place here.”

“Thanks, dad,” Beth says quietly while Jerry glares, arm crossed, silently fuming, unwilling to cause more of a scene.

Morty picks at the rest of his meal, tries not to watch Rick knock back cocktails and wine and beer until he’s slouching and swaying in his chair. Stamps down on the urge to leap across the table in a blind rage as Rick pours Beth yet another glass of wine.

“Well,” Jerry announces before anyone can suggest dessert. “I think we’re all ready for home, right? I’ll pay. Beth, you, uh, you and the kids can help Rick to the car, huh?”

They sit Rick in the middle on the back seat, and it seems a little surreal seeing him in a car like a normal person. Jerry’s hands are stark white against the steering wheel. Rick leans heavily against Morty after Summer shoves him away from her. His breath is hot and rank across Morty’s face. 

Morty is angry, sad, annoyed by the snuffling sounds Rick is making down his ear, but then Rick shifts to wrap his arm around Morty’s middle, touches his nose gently to Morty’s flushed cheek.

“I love you, Morty, I- I do, Morty, I mean it,” Rick slurs before dropping his head to Morty’s shoulder, snoring louder than should be physically possible.

Morty tries to cling to the anger that seemed to rattle through his whole body moments earlier, but it slips through his fingers like fine sand. He pets Rick’s hand where it’s fallen into his lap. The snuffling that had been grating his nerves now seems endearing, the tickle of Rick’s wild hair against his ear pleasant instead of irritating.

“I love you too, Rick,” Morty whispers, so quiet he can barely hear it himself. He wishes he didn’t mean it.

-

There’s a clatter, a mumbled curse, and Morty shoots upright in bed, startled abruptly from a troubled sleep. He almost stumbles into being grateful, the dreams confusing, unpleasant, but the weight of exhaustion is heavy and he finds himself annoyed instead.

“Rick, w-what the hell, man? I’m- I’m trying to sleep here, and you’re drunk, even though you said you w-wouldn’t, and I’m-“

“You’re a little fu- a little shit is what you are, Mouuuurghty, you’re a-“

Rick staggers, falls, and Morty wishes he could leave him to struggle, or laugh at the state he’s gotten himself in, but he’s climbing out of his blankets without a thought, dragging Rick up to lie on the bed instead of the floor.

Petting Rick’s hair back from his face feels too indulgent, especially with Rick so out of it. Morty feels like he’s stealing. Morty feels like he’s petting a sleeping lion; knows Rick’s moods turn quick when he’s like this.

Morty feels like he’s standing on creaking ice.

“You’re such a mess,” Morty says, and it comes out so fond it makes his stomach turn.

“You looked- _hic_ \- y-y-you looked good tonight, Morty, you looked-“ Rick’s hands are clumsy at Morty’s belly, tugging at Morty’s pyjama top, sneaking around Morty’s attempts to swat him away with a deftness he shouldn’t be capable of right now.

“Rick…”

“You gonna tell me what- gonna try telling me what to do again, Morty?” Rick asks, his voice getting sharp, making Morty tense up.

“W-w-what do you-?”

“You fucking know what I’m talking about Morty, you little fuckin’-“ Rick cuts in, rubbing at his bleary eyes for a second before clutching again at Morty’s shirt. “Even had me listening, you sneaky little shit, had me actually-“

Rick scratches lightly through Morty’s sleep-messy hair, pulls him in closer, presses a kiss to Morty’s quivering lips. Morty feels dizzy with the zig-zag of emotions Rick is putting him through, hands soft, voice hard. He can’t read the situation at all, and the confusion feels too much, pulls him down into that sad, dark place behind his teary eyes.

“I-I’m sorry, Rick,” Morty mumbles against Rick’s clumsy mouth. He lets his fingers rest at Rick’s hip, traces circles there, hoping to calm Rick. There’s a moment of dull horror at the jerk of Rick’s cock beneath his dirty trousers, followed swiftly by resignation, and Morty lets his fingertips trail over the growing hardness.

This isn’t his Rick, not really, but Morty knows him all the same. He doesn’t enjoy easing Rick’s zipper open, but he does it anyway. To make Rick forgive him, maybe, or to help Rick sleep. Maybe just because that’s what Rick wants him to do.

Morty isn’t really sure anymore whether the thoughts he has are his own or just something Rick has put there.

“I like you better sober,” Morty confesses, pressing forehead to forehead, working Rick into full arousal. 

The hard breath Rick lets out through his nose flares hot across Morty’s screwed-up face, harsh liquor and mockery.

“I don’t give a- a fu-uh-uck what you like, Morrrty.”

Morty stills his hand, frustrated, unappreciated; feels a shock of power jolt through him at Rick’s whine, at the way Rick’s fingers tighten in his shirt, crease the fabric there.

“Morty, don’t play with me like that, babe, come on,” Rick says, gripping around Morty’s fingers, stripping that fleeting feeling of control from him as he guides Morty’s hand. “You’re fuh-fucking beautiful sometimes, baby, really had me twisted up tonight at- at dinner.”

Rick lays wet kisses to Morty’s unmoving mouth, and Morty lets the compliment soak into him, needs more to ease the hurt.

“Yeah?” Morty prompts, _needing_ Rick’s words, needing it like a balm to a first degree burn. “I got a-all dressed up for you, Rick.” Morty thinks it’s a lie, but once it’s out there he’s not so sure. “Wanted you to notice,” Morty whispers, voice wavering with the doubt that he might be telling the truth.

“Nearly damn killed me, Morty, not following you. W-when you left. Wanted tuhh fuckin’- wanted to get on my knees for you, baby. Wanted to taste th-that cheap cologne you had on.”

Morty doesn’t need guiding anymore, strokes firm up Rick’s length, savours the way Rick gasps. Rick’s hand snakes up Morty’s arm, sends shivers through him, nestles back in Morty’s hair, holds him trapped while Rick licks into Morty’s mouth.

Morty doesn’t fight, doesn’t try to escape; licks and sucks at Rick’s tongue until the taste of stale beer and sleep has all but vanished. He closes his eyes, pulls at Rick’s cock, listens to Rick breathe unsteady and too loud, and can almost pretend it’s okay.

The rhythm is soothing, Morty’s own arousal stirring slightly but not enough to be an issue, and once the taste of alcohol has dulled, he starts to enjoy it, taking care of Rick. Lets his mind drift to the surprise in Rick’s eyes whenever Morty says something funny enough to make Rick laugh. Lets himself think of Rick sharp and clear and bright, running or shooting or fucking, unimpaired. Lets himself think of Rick’s tongue wet with saliva and excitement instead of booze.

Morty tries not to think of the shine of sunlight glinting from Rick’s flask. He tries not to think of how he’s never heard Rick say ‘I love you’ without the words being drunk-soft and messy.

He tries, but that’s not really how it works.

**Author's Note:**

> an introduction into my exploration of rick's alcohol abuse!
> 
> guys, i'm going down a dark path with this one.  
> i've got something kinda terrible written that i'm easing into.  
> i wrote this pretty much so the other one isn't too Out Of Nowhere.  
> just wanted to lay down that rick drinks a lot, and morty worries about it.
> 
> this one is really different to what i usually write?? where is the porn???  
> well there is a lot of Bad Touching coming up so i thought i'd work up to it ;)  
> hope you're not too disappointed! <3
> 
> (for FocusOnScience, for being such a doll and talking about rick the drunk with me)


End file.
